The New Human Being?

Activists, Anarchists, Nihilists, Aesthetes: Musil and post WWI dreams of a New World

Mar 13, 2025

This is a draft of some material I am finding it difficult to shorten or weave into the narrative. I am going to plop it here for the moment. Perhaps I will succeed in weaving it in or I might craft it into a sort of “interlude,” or not use it at all.

THE NEW HUMAN BEING?

"Every revolution evaporates and leaves behind only the slime of a new bureaucracy." -Franz Kafka

Just as Musil would contend that there were many causes for WWI, he saw that there were many possibilities for a creative reorganization of the European world in the war’s wake—possibilities that were, in his estimation, all left tragically undeveloped[i]. He was right to be disappointed, but he would be the first to acknowledge how difficult it is to turn, ideals into reality. As Thomas says to the naïve Miss Mehrtens in the play, “The Utopians,” which Musil had begun during the war and was still working on in the first post-war years: “Ideale sind die ärgsten Feinde des Idealismus! Ideale sind toter Idealismus. Verwesungsrückstände – –.” Albrecht Schoene, in his essay on Musil’s use of the Subjunctive Case—the case of possibility as opposed to the indicative— made the important distinction: Musil was a utopian thinker, but not a utopian. The utopian thinker, he explained, is the first person to be thrown out of fixed utopia, because his consideration of possibilities does not stop. This is one reason why Musil would increasingly reject most of the political solutions of his friends and acquaintances, mostly resisting party affiliation.

By 1924 he would have already conceived of his fictional motif of the “Parallel Campaign” for his novel-in-progress, a parody of the attempt to turn ideas into action: a committee is formed to find one representative idea to celebrate the 70^h anniversary of Kaiser Franz Joseph’s reign, which of course comes to naught, not only because of the outbreak of WWI. The infinite number of varying conceptions, the conflict between opposing values, the difficulty of turning any idea into action—these obstacles were enough to render the campaign a failure from the outset. The irony, however, is of the “constructive” kind Musil favored: for despite his biting wit, he was sympathetic to the shared human problem of thinking and its related, but often estranged, sibling action. Presumably in a reflection of the many sectarian disagreements and the practically religious conviction in the air in these heady post-war years, Musil transcribed the list of sects from the appendix to Flaubert’s The Temptation of Saint Antony—and elsewhere noted the “interesting examples of extreme possibilitites of how to live described in Gomperz’s The Conceptions of Life of the Greek Philosophers (T 341). For this utopian thinker who would be kicked out of any fixed utopia, the challenge was how to live ethically and aesthetically in a realm of uncertainty without creating overly rigid new systems or conducts of life.

He saw the “brutal conflicts of [1919] … as the culmination of a trauma so fundamental that it could be justified only by the construction of a new European order.”[ii] Musil, like many of his contemporaries, was looking for another, a new or different (kind of) human being. He first articulated this desire in reference to a plan at this time to publish a book of essays on the “question of nation, blood, and cultural unity,” possibly with the title, “Attempts to Find Another Human Being” (D 310/D 324). But this search meant something different for him than it did to “those political revolutionaries to whom he [was] ‘in many respects grateful for their holy ardor’”— without ascribing to their solutions or definitions. For him, the birth of a different kind of human being was to be engendered through intellectual and cultural means. The task, he averred, is:

“the duty of thinking, responsible human beings, therefore is also his own duty: recognition and articulation of the problems, deficits and needs and of the future (utopian) possibilities, external to, as well as alongside organized and institutionalized politics, ideally, also, against them, as critic, theorist, as educator, as reformer, as poet, as utopian.”

If this seems far removed from political concerns—even abstract analyses of blood, nation, or cultural identity—that is because Musil’s mode of valuing and analyzing is so very different from that of other theorists. He was deeply engaged in the political upheavals surrounding him. The crucial difference between his engagement and some of his friends and many of his contemporaries—a difference which became more explicit over the decades from the end of WWI to the beginning of WWII—may be summed up by two points: 1) his perspective was wider and broader than most because it was interdisciplinary: he applied insights from sociology, psychology, ancient philosophy, aesthetic theory, even physics and mathematics to examine the roots of contemporary events in human nature and history; 2) His ultimate goal was different. He felt that the state’s highest purpose was to foster conditions for creative work—by preserving humanistic foundations such as freedom of expression, individual autonomy, and economic and social support for the creative individuals.

While then, Musil is often accused of being a-political or even naïve when it came to political thought, this accusation is usually levelled by Marxist contemporaries who disagree so fundamentally with his political, ethical and aesthetic premises that they cannot even see them. Patrizia McBride [iii] argues that Musil’s vision of the relationship between art and politics—in part because of the two differences I enumerate above—was actually more foreword looking than the anachronistic theories of most of his contemporaries. It was more sophisticated in that it acknowledged and grappled with the increasing plurality of the modern world (facts, perspectives, areas of specialization) and the impossibility of finding an Archimedian point from which to judge, decide and act. By “relinquishing the dream of a privileged totalizing perspective” after the post WWI “demise of traditional coordinates for orientation,” Musil, unlike many of his contemporaries, did not try to replace the old absolutes with new ones, such as the “liberal faith in progress,” “chimeras of Nationalism,” Antisemitism, or Catholicism. Instead, he was grappling with “a new problem…which does not yet have a solution” in which he saw “emancipatory potential.” The question of how to make choices when old verities are no longer valid led Musil to Ethics—in conjunction with aesthetics—and to the search for another (kind of) human being who could face the world in this comprehensive way without a collapse into polarized ossification or dystopian coercion.

Practically, this different perspective culminates for Musil in a seemingly anti-climactic belief in the importance of educational reform—but it is a radical vision of what the human being could be if her mind were opened to precision and soul, the rational and irrational, the mathematical and the artistic-philosophical, and of a state that honored and was guided by its intellectual leaders. It is a matter of a pedagogy that would combine the realms of science with an aesthetic education along the lines of Schiller’s—that celebration of the free play of the individual in the realm of art, qualitative rather than merely quantitative. The polarized thinking of the next decades, featuring wild swings between unchecked irrationality and treacherously inhumane social engineering, show how profound was this warning. It offered an important alternate model to counter the tendency of modern life to turn the individual into a cog in a machine, to the lazy conformity that wears down the human capacity to think critically and defend basic human freedoms and pleasures. [iv]

Although the aim was lofty, the path Musil took there did not completely avoid the common miseries of daily life. Musil’s experiences as a soldier fighting alongside of members of the working class and living among struggling peasants on the border with Italy during the war had sensitized him to the troubles of the poor. Add to this the post-war conditions in Vienna: hunger, housing shortages, tuberculosis, and Spanish Flu (which Musil himself contracted), massive inflation[v]; and, in his own family, a precipitous decline in financial resources: his mother lost about 35,000 Krone, which before the war would have been the equivalent of seven years of his salary as a librarian; and his wife’s inheritance (about 70,000 Marks) was “dramatically shrunken.”[vi] Still, Musil’s primary concern was always the question of how the artist—himself and others—might be nourished by society. His friend Karl Otto explains that Musil’s notorious “bitterness about his public lack of success” was not merely a question of envy, but rather a result of real terror about actual “financial misery,” which Musil understood—not just on a personal level, but as a social critique with lasting relevance—as the result of the “”disregard for the intellectually independent person, the commercialization of the art world” which “made the insecurity of his position even more unbearable.”[vii]

From socialistic theories and programs, he had hoped at first to find support—both economic and emotional—for creative artists and thinkers, but was quickly disabused of such optimism. In the 1930’s, he told his friend, Karl Otten, that the intellectual had been “cut out of the political life” of the nation. “I understand, “he continued, “the goals of socialism, I even approve of them, I go along with them; but I do not approve of the stance of the Socialist Party, the bureaucracy, the anti-intellectual lack of conscience. Why is it, how does it happen that we stand outside of this great movement”? He then bewailed the fact that while “his voice [or is it vote? Check original] counts just as much as a tram conductor, that conductor’s power in the nation is far greater, thanks to his labor organizing, than that of a single individual, no matter how far superior an intellect he may be.”[viii] Musil was referring to himself when positing this superior intellectual being, but also revealing his own vision of how the creative intellect should inform political decision-making. Since individuals, in a society that was becoming more and more collectivist, did not have the power they once had (and should), Musil would get involved in a sort of union of “intellectual workers,” the Association for the Protection of Autrian Writersin 1922, to try to advocate for their rights and protect them from abuses—but this work was non-partisan: its only ideological basis was that the state should support the free creation and expression of the writer, for its own good.

While then exposure to the suffering of others and his own troubles had driven home to him the possible benefits of programs of social welfare, his activism was mainly cultural and intellectual. Insofar as social activism was carried out in defense of freedoms of speech and sexuality, he was a likely supporter; but he would not support any program that promised merely economic salvation at the cost of such freedoms—and despite compassion and occasional advocacy for the alleviation of conditions of poverty and its accompanying miseries, he was never an egalitarian. On the contrary he consistently insisted on the wisdom of following the considered advice of an intellectual elite.

Marx he read with a critical eye, occasionally considered arguments from the (Arbeiter Zeitung) Worker Paper, wondered about the experiments of Bolshevism, and even signed the program of the Political Council of Intellectual Workers in 1918, drafted by Kurt Hiller, an Expressionist author and pacifist. The program “demanded ‘the socialization of land; confiscation of wealth from a specific level upwards; the transformation of capitalistic companies into worker cooperatives’ as well as ‘just distribution of material goods essential for living,’ ‘freedom of sexuality,’ ‘radical reform of public education,’ ‘separation of church and state,’ etc.”[ix] The related cause of creating a council of intellectuals to defend cultural politics from the “one-sided economic viewpoint and to balance out the damage done by partisan bureaucratic torpor” was not however enthusiastically taken up by the enforcement council of workers and soldiers in “Greater Berlin”—there was, in other words, minimal chance that the cultural politics that Musil would continue to care about would be carried out by his “comrades”.[x]

Beyond this goal central to Musil’s involvement, the group, “in association with Müller’s journal Neue Wirtschaft (New Economy), and with a so-called ‘Society for Literary Distribution and Propaganda,’” had aimed “to spread the ‘pacifist-anti-militarist and Marxist ideas of revolution’ via broad-based cultural programs throughout all spheres.”[xi]

Pacifism and Marxism? Musil had celebrated the outbreak of the war, had worked as a propagandist for the multi-ethnic empire and to counter bad morale at the war’s close, and, despite a gradual change of perspective over the grueling years of soldiery and an earnest consideration of how peace might best be maintained in the future through what he would call supra-national reconciliation politics, he still maintained, in a conversation with Soma Morgenstern in the twenties, that he was “for war” in general. Morgenstern knew Musil ‘well enough to guess that he did not affirm war for political reasons. It turned out that he was for war because he had experienced ‘the great experience of death’ in war”. Although Morgenstern was a young man at the time, and fully unknown, he dared to contradict the esteemed Musil: “You think then that it’s good if men are killed so that the writer Robert Musil may savor ‘the great experience of death’?” Musil blushed to his hair line, “and was silent for an embarrassingly long time. Then he said: ‘it is not my fault that I survived the war. But you have a right to speak, without making a banal impression, because you were a soldier in the war yourself—even if you are too young as writer to be able to appreciate the experience of death.””[xii] Elsewhere, Musil does call himself a pacifist—though not out of ideology like Kraus—but this personal, practically aesthetic justification for the value or war is perhaps a good example of one of the perspectives from which Musil sometimes judged things.

The celebration of war as enlivening cataclysm or “Erschuetterung” (shattering) was related for Musil with his convictions about what art should do and is a leitmotiv in his essays and reviews of contemporary theater written during this period. Revolutions in art, in love, in personal convictions and experience, yes, but not ones that were born out of or concluded in absolute dogma or rigid dystopias.

While he might then ascribe to pacifism on the level of boots (not) on the ground, when it came to a consideration of what human life is made and the deeper psychology of the human being, he could not. As he will note in an interview about his novel project (at that time called The Twin Sister) in 1926: “the world cannot exist without evil—it brings movement into the world. Goodness alone leads to ossification.” As to whether he might have really—in some way or other—have been in support of Marxist ideas of revolution, his many comments against revolution make this highly unlikely.

Amann clarifies that “What Musil sought, beyond friendly solidarity with Robert Müller,” was the aforementioned “politics of intellectual and spiritual organization”—a process and realm of thinking that would swiftly take him far away from the more didactic and ideologically based rhetoric of some of his friends. Because he believed that politics should be guided by spirit/or intellect, at first he was somewhat sympathetic to the “Aktivism” movement spurred on by Mueller and Hiller. The idea was for “intellectual workers” to develop ideas to influence the machinery of politics. He was further drawn to the promise of Activism, as a championing of an essential role for art as a force—like war itself—that could induce “Erschuetterung,” wake people up, quicken to a greater aliveness—just so long as this shattering was not tied to a specific political party or program, just as long as it did not reduce the irreducible to slogans and simplistic polarities. Musil was not a fan of Brecht. His increasingly vocal criticism of Expressionism—mostly in the realm of the theater, where he characterized its stylistic tendency as “word-barking”—was related to his criticism of this related political movement. Soon he realized that instead of politics benefiting from the open realm of creative intellect, creative intellect and the works of art made in service to political causes were suffering under the encroachment of such ideologies.[xiii]

Musil’s obituary for Robert Mueller, who took his life in 1924 is exceedingly praising, but cannot help but note that Mueller made the mistake of presenting himself as a “theoretician, a worldly thinker, but was not that.” He “lacked the training and perhaps the talent.” Although his “‘Activism’, the desire to help the intellectual and spiritual claim in everyday life to its right and rule” was “genuine and deep,” sometimes the “implementation cooks the kitchen instead of the dish.”[xiv] And when, in 1921 when he was asked by his friend Max Mell to contribute something to a journal called The Future, he declined, explaining that: “ The connection of the aesthetic with all questions of world-view and world-formation, including the political, has often provoked me; nevertheless, I am of the opinion that the political is mostly merely an over-simplification of the aesthetic, its clown [dumb Augustine], while one needs only to grasp the aesthetic somewhat differently in order to show its unacknowledged contemporaneity” (B 240-241).[xv]

Some of the tension between intellect and action is present in The Man Without Qualities, where the term activism is repeatedly used in conjunction with the terms nihilist, and realist as Ulrich and his sister strive to delineate who they are and what they believe in. On the one hand, Ulrich acknowledges that he has never fully given up on his old belief that the world would best be guided by a senate of the most knowledgeable and the most advanced people (MoE, Chapter 40, 154). Another way of looking at this is that Musil believed that the most important policy action that could be enacted for the betterment of the world was a reform of education and the schools. On the other, Musil—and Ulrich—remained skeptical about what could be accomplished, about how much human nature was really capable of changing, about the whole concept of creating a new human being. And while Activism may have sounded good, if its proponents, like Kurt Hiller, “who has little intelligence” demand a rule by intellect, what does that really mean?

He was still struggling with the question when revising the Breaths of a Summer’s Day chapter in the last days of his life. We read:

“Naturally it was clear to him that the two sorts of human beings under consideration, could mean nothing other than a man ‘without qualities, in contrast to one with all the qualities that a human being might exhibit. One would like to call the one a nihilist, who dreams of God’s dreams; in contrast to the activist, who in his impatient way of action is also a kind of dreamer of God, but who, no less than a realist, goes about his business with worldly clarity and busyness. “Why then are we not realists” Ulrich asked himself. Neither of them were, neither he nor she; their thoughts and actions had long since left no doubt about this; but they were nihilists and activists, now one, now the other, depending on the circumstances.”

Another clue to Musil’s positive definition of activist, is found in the words of Arnheim, criticizing Ulrich as “an activist, who always has his head full of how things might be different and made better…” [from Seinesgleichen: Ein Mensch wie Ihr Vetter…] ] An activist, for him, was a sort of utopian (like himself) who would keep searching for alternative answers while others were ossifying into rigid dystopias.

Another term from the realm of politics which Musil chose to define differently for his own uses was “anarchist”—and he considered calling his drama, The Utopians, The Anarchists (In German, it is called Die Schwärmer, which may mean “swarmers,” “enthusiasts,” “ravers,” etc. I chose to call the play, “The Utopians,” for reasons explained in my introduction in Theater Symptoms.) Having described himself as a “conservative anarchist” in 1913, his understanding of the term now had just as little affiliation with the political movement by this name. For him, it represented a certain stance of the individual via the world and its expectations, a: general disposition of being against prevailing order of things—not feeling at home in the world. The figures in his play are for the most part these sorts of anarchists to differing degrees—they are not satisfied by the things that satisfy others, they often do things for reasons that are opposite from those other people would imagine; while others seem to easily align themselves with the patterns that society has prepared for them, the utopian anarchists are only true to themselves insofar as they do not fit easily into expectations or these patterns—they embody, in their open-ended dis-ease and lack of commitment the utopia Musil would later call “The Utopia of the Next Step,” whereby no act, thought, or experience can be evaluated except by whatever it sets in motion. The value of something depends—in an echo of Nietzsche’s Bizet makes me fruitful, therefore Bizet is good—on whether it makes one rise or fall in its presence.[xvi] War, then, while palpably a horror, also was known to make the heart beat faster and was, thus, sometimes preferre to the “wretched contentment” that induced sleep.

Reading, in 1920, with mixed agreement and criticisms Thomas Mann’s Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man, a wide-ranging attack on the anti-German mood of leftist intellectuals like Mann’s brother Heinrich, Musil took many notes, including Mann’s quotation from Nietzsche’s Human, All too Human: “Every one who remains stuck in the belief in which he was first caught, is suspect. He doesn’t understand that there must be other ideas.” Musil then glosses that Nietzsche calls such people “unscientific”; for them, “having an opinion means to already become fanatic about it and to lay it to heart as a conviction” (T 475).

Mann’s war enthusiasm led him to transform, “from one month to the next,” from a nonpolitical man of letters” to “an intransigent and inflammatory defender of the German cause on the international stage,” and, over the next few years, to “devote himself entirely to a defense of Germany against the onslaught of ‘alien’ Western ideas of enlightenment and democracy.”^[xvii] In his complicated, messy, and fascinating book, he polemicized against what he called “civilization,” i.e. “reason, skepticism, humanitarianism, democracy, and progress,” in defense of something he considered preternaturally German, i.e. “Culture,” something “more primordial, drawing energy from the dark side of human nature and producing greater depth of feeling, and therefore greater art.”^[xviii] ." Without ascribing to Mann’s nationalist affirmation that Germany stood for Culture, while the rest of Europe represented only a passive, anodyne “Civilization,” Musil transcribed this line from Mann with evident approval: “…. the deeper truth is that everyone wanted the war a[nd] clamored for it” (T 482) ^[xix].

Musil, as synthesizer of ratio and mysticism—who saw the dangers and limitations of too much of each—was deeply engaged in Mann’s discussion, without succumbing to its polarized conviction. Contra Mann’s theory in this book, Musil would later argue explicitly against the idea that art was bound to nation or race—but he certainly shared and continued to share Mann’s belief in the need for a “European catastrophe,”^[xx] or at least a personal or artistic experience of cataclysm. Mann himself strongly repudiated many of the ideas expressed in this book when he saw them being taken up by proto-Nazis, at which point he began his transformation into a defender of democratic values. Lilla writes: that "Thomas Mann eventually learned that political freedom and artistic freedom are compatible. But he never abandoned the conviction that artistic freedom can serve as a check…on the claims of politics”.

In one long diary passage, Musil wrangled with Mann’s words: “politics of moderation. Radicalism is admissible in morality, in art; in politics it is a catastrophe.” Musil considers for a moment a counter-argument paraphrased from Max Adler (sociologist and socialist theoretician representative of Austro-Marxism) found in an article from the Worker Newspaper of Feb 15, 1919, that “Pol[itical] freedom and equality remain only words when econ[omic] equality is lacking, i.e., there is no equality before the law in reality…How is fraternity possible between the haves and the have-nots” (T 482-3). After which he gives Mann the floor again, likely with approval: “Where…convictions are the trump card one doesn’t ask too much about talent a[nd] the bunglers will thrive.” Musil must also have read Mann’s discussion of Wagner in this work “as an artist and an intellectual he was a revolutionary all his life…just as certain that this national culture-revolutionary was not in favor of political revolution” (97 Reflections), which was closely echoed by Musil’s own words shortly afterwards:

“As an individual I am revolutionary. That can’t be otherwise, for the creative individual it is always like that. But in politicis I am evolutionary. But something has to happen for this evolution.” (T 544)

Other passages from Musil’s writing, especially his own commentary during the 30s about the encroachment of politics on art and ethics, seem to be practically paraphrases of some of Mann’s statements in Reflections.

Corino notes that Musil’s reading of the book concentrated on sentences “that could outlive the changes of the times.” These included a serious engagement—and disagreement—with sentences that seemed to undervalue the intellect in favor of feeling, such as: “The intellectual idea in the work of art is not understood, if one understands it as an aim in itself; it should not be valued literarily.” (quoted from Reflections in Musil’s T 478). Musil must have been driven to dip back in to Death in Venice to find and transcribe this line that seemed more to his own liking: “The happiness of the writer is the idea that may become fully feeling, the feeling that may become fully idea” (quoted T 477).[xxi] Despite these serious disagreements about an issue at the heart of Musil’s thought and work, they did both share the conviction that art must be preserved from the encroachment of politics and ideology.

This concern is one reason for Musil’s serious engagement with other contemporary conservative thinkers, whose ideas he wrangled with—agreeing with some ideas and disagreeing with others. From Ludwig Klages’ On Cosmogonic Eros he found inspiration for his idea of the “other condition,” but mocked his tone in the character of Meingast in The Man Without Qualities that was based, in part, on him. He read and praised Josef Nadler’s book on German peoples and tribes as a “masterful synthesis,” but wrote to him in 1923 hoping that when his planned book of essays appeared Nadler would not take it as a personal critique when Musil himself took an opposing view about the relationship between race and character. He read Ortega Y Gasset’s celebration of nobility and critique of conformity, The Revolt of the Masses and his The Modern Theme (German translation, 1928). After a note about the latter, he writes: “Democracy consumes itself by solicitude for itself, because it paralyses, if possible, the energetic and powerful.”

He read books in favor of and attacking liberal theories, taking some ideas from each and rejecting others, depending on context and mood, yet it is clear that his more youthful “anarchic disposition” would be replaced more and more by “support for the principle of social ‘Steuerung’ (steering).” While, for example, he roundly trounced Spengler in his essay, “Geist und Erfahrung,” for his irrationalism and shoddy critical apparatus, he did seem to agree in part with his (and Mann’s) praise of Culture over Civilization and even with Spengler’s “conservative diagnosis of the decline of culture as caused by its democratization brought about by the rise of population.[xxii]

It is also important to understand that Musil, like many of his contemporaries, did not experience the collapse of the Empire as something positive. While it was fashionable among literati to take the “French” side against Germanic militarism and bullying, or veer further to the left in a premature rapture over the idyll of Soviet Communism, Musil—a bit like Thomas Mann—was more reluctant to completely turn against his nation. Despite reserving the critic’s and free-thinking individual’s right and duty to criticize and suggest alternatives, he had fought for the preservation of the multi-ethnic Empire under a rule that he considered largely benevolent, had written apologies for its continuation, and harbored nostalgia for it. Further, he felt that the Germans and Austrians were being unfairly punished for their part in the war—and that this punishment would lead to worse problems in the future. Germans who still lived in areas that were now Czech or Hungarian or Italian were being treated badly by the new nationalistic leaders who justified their repression by claims that life under the Austrian monarchy’s hegemony was like living in a prison—a claim that Musil, despite acknowledging that these nationalities had not always been treated well, considered hyperbole.[xxiii]

According to a friend, Musil experienced the fall of Monarchy as necessary but painful. “He loved Kakania, he laughed about Kakania, his heart and head ached for Kakania, but he always experienced it like an anaology full of lovableness, poetry, and romantic irony—an analogy for human incongruity itself” (100 En Face).

An acknowledgment of this basic human incongruence might be a good place to begin a movement of sustainable reform that could support what Musil called an “armed truce of ideas”—a civic realm of open discourse that did not aim at a totalizing solution. Although one could see the Empire itself as an example of the unsustainable attempt to repress conflicting perspectives and needs within the warm embrace of the Emperor[xxiv] one could also see it as a model of the sort of sustainable armed truce, a realm where differences, conflicts, dynamic irreducible singularities could never be fully resolved. And one could then posit that the attempt to resolve the conflicts, by creating individual nationalistic states was in fact the move that facilitated the catastrophe, not only of WWI but of WWII. Radical attempts toward a dystopia where there is no longer any power struggle or conflict. This is easy to say, of course, when one is, like Musil was, a member of the group that is most privileged in a given society, and yet it may be argued that the upheavals of WWI and its revolutions and reforms left everyone in a worse condition than they were in under the Empire and that a botched handling of the possibilities for a new world led to the horrors of WWII.

Attempts to Find Robert Musil

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